


those who wait

by justjoy



Series: stories of baker street: fills from the sherlock bbc kink meme [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hospitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:04:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justjoy/pseuds/justjoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He has tried countless ways of distracting himself - reviewing all the files for the cases he currently has on hand, reading the latest posts from John's blog, playing phone Scrabble for goodness' sakes.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Nothing works. His attention inevitably returns to the door of the operating room; he has stared at the green "Operation in Progress" light for so long, red dots are beginning to dance on the back of his eyelids every time Greg blinks.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	those who wait

**Author's Note:**

> No specific time, but generally set some time during the second series.

"Clock's three minutes slow."

Sherlock jumps up from his seat and paces the narrow hallway, his gaze never straying from the small clock that hangs on the wall. 

"No one's bothered to replace the battery since last Christmas - no, make that three minutes and six seconds." 

He scowls, long coat flaring around him as he reaches the end of the hallway and doubles back. "Bought by a young female, mid-twenties, probably a new pharmacist - "

* * *

Greg is slowly going mad.

He has tried countless ways of distracting himself - reviewing all the files for the cases he currently has on hand, reading the latest posts from John's blog, playing  _phone Scrabble_  for goodness' sakes.

Nothing works. His attention inevitably returns to the door of the operating room; he has stared at the green "Operation in Progress" light for so long, red dots are beginning to dance on the back of his eyelids every time he blinks.

The pounding in his head is keeping nice time to the incessant rhythm that is Sherlock pacing the hallway: eighteen steps,  _step step step_  and then a soft  _swish_  of fabric as the consulting detective makes yet another turn at the end of the hallway,  _step step step step_  -

He cannot take this any longer. 

Greg stands and crosses the hallway in two strides, blocking the detective's path.

Sherlock lets out a low growl at the obstruction. He steps to the left, but Greg shifts his stance slightly, covering that route as well. "Get  _out_  of my way, Lestrade, or I swear I'll - "

"You'll what?" Greg interrupts, tone defiant, challenging. "You can't even keep still for one second, let alone do anything to me. Heck, your deductions aren't even making sense."

The consulting detective is glaring at him now, derision warring with anger in his expression. "Oh, really, Lestrade? And who are you to say that?"

"Want to prove it?" Greg crosses his arms with a look of stubborn determination on his face. "Try me."

And Sherlock does just that, rattles off deduction after deduction with the accompanying evidence and inferences - the leaps of logic less secure than usual, Greg notes - until suddenly the stream of words stutter to a halt, Sherlock's hands pausing in the air mid-gesture.

The consulting detective gives Greg a long, calculating look. "You're distracting me, aren't you?"

It might as well have been a statement for all that was inquiring about it.

Greg shrugs nonchalantly, although he doesn't relax his posture just yet. "Maybe."

Sherlock doesn't show any signs of relenting either, and Greg is almost certain that he is about to launch into another tirade of deductions against the world in general.

And then he suddenly just... deflates, slumping like a balloon with all the air let out.

Greg hesitates. He can deal with Sherlock Holmes at his rudest and most acerbic, in a slump of moody inactivity, or even high as a kite - but not this. This is new.

"You alright, Sherlock?"

"Yes," comes the immediate reply.

Silence hangs between them, broken only by the muted clamour of the hospital -

" _No._ " His words are muffled, unsure. "I don't know, Lestrade, my mind - I just can't - "

Greg winces. He knows how Sherlock's mind functions. Coupled with the fact that he probably knows the exact statistics of fatalities from gunshot wounds it's no wonder he hasn't already snapped before now.

He watches Sherlock in silent concern. The detective is leaning against the wall with his back to him, but judging from the slight tremor in his shoulders Greg can already imagine how his face looks like.

Had it been anyone else, he would probably try consoling, but Sherlock probably wouldn't appreciate the sentiment. Touching is also out of the question; they have a long-standing, unspoken agreement against it except in extreme life-or-death situations.

But this is _Mycroft_.

Coming abruptly to a decision, Greg steps forward, placing one hand on Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock freezes for a moment - and then, to Greg's genuine surprise, turns towards him so that the gesture becomes an awkward one-armed embrace. Greg doesn't bother to change this, just holds Sherlock loosely as his breathing slowly evens out, some of the tension leaving his body.

He thinks they can both make an exception, just this once.

"Easy there, sunshine. Just breathe," Greg murmurs, rubbing soothing circles on Sherlock's back. "Let's get you something to drink."

* * *

Greg turns around, and nearly knocks over the cup that Mycroft's assistant is holding out to him. Her gaze is still fixed on the BlackBerry in her other hand as always, but from the worries crease of her brow Greg can tell that it isn't the usual business with the diplomats that she deals with everyday. She had been so quiet up to now, he'd almost forgotten she was there with them.

He accepts the cup gratefully and passes it to Sherlock. "Thank you - ah - "

"Anthea," she supplies helpfully. "You're welcome, Detective Inspector."

Greg winces at that. He never quite knows what to call her - he thinks she gave him Mary when they last met. Or perhaps it had been Violet; he can never remember.

Before he can say anything else, though, she slips a hand into one pocket and retrieves a phone, holding it out to him. "I can get Doctor Watson on the line, if that would help?"

He stares at the phone in askance. "Can't we just use our phones?"

Anthea shakes her head minutely. "Classified information."

"Right. Government hush-hush and all that," Greg mutters, raising an eyebrow. He takes the phone anyway. "Will he be free to take calls now, though? I thought the conference - "

"He will be." Her reply is full of dead certainty that is almost ominous. Greg doesn't bother questioning her - he recalls quite well that the convention that John is attending with Doctor Sawyer should last last the whole day. John himself had said that he probably wouldn't be available until late evening.

But then again, interrupting a worldwide medical convention was probably nothing in the larger scale of things... at least in the eyes of the British Government.

There's only one number programmed into the phone. John picks up on the second ring. "Mycroft? Is that you? Did something happen to Sherlock?"

"No, it's not - " his voice catches, and he has to force himself to speak past the sudden lump in his throat. "It's me, Greg. Sherlock - Sherlock's fine. Safe."

"Then - Mrs Hudson?"

Greg can feel John's rising panic, and it's certainly not helping his own.

"Mycroft," he chokes out, and there is a beat of silence, then a soft  _oh_  of realisation. 

If John notices the hoarseness of his voice, he doesn't comment on it, and Greg is silently grateful for that. He closes his eyes and listens to the tapping sounds that come over the line.

"Seven fifteen," John says suddenly.

He starts. "What?"

"I'm getting a ticket back." John answers over the  _taptaptap_  that Greg abruptly realises is the sound of typing. "Seven fifteen p.m. this evening."

"You don't have to - " he protests weakly.

"Of course I'm coming." John's voice brooks no argument, but there is a trace of hesitation before he speaks again. 

"Sherlock... is he okay?"

Greg sighs, feeling every one of his years, and perhaps more. He slants a glance at Sherlock - the consulting detective has somehow ended up back in his chair, staring into the cup of untouched tea.

"I don't know," he admits quietly. John will understand, he thinks. "Do you want to talk to him?"

The tapping ceases. "I - that would be good, yeah."

Greg doesn't let himself hesitate as he walks over, crouching down next to Sherlock. He holds out the phone.

"For you. It's John," he adds somewhat unnecessarily.

Sherlock glares at him. "I would appreciate it if you stopped your infernal  _meddling_ ," he retorts.

The words hold none of their usual venom, but the bitterness rings clear. Sherlock looks between him and Anthea, and Greg isn't quite sure which one of them he's referring to. It doesn't matter - Greg stubbornly keeps the phone in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock turns away.

Greg does the only thing he can - sets the phone down in the seat next to Sherlock and stands. He can't control what happens next, but he can hazard a guess from the glances he'd felt from Sherlock.

He passes Mycroft's assistant, and gives her a bright grin as fake as her name. "Walk with me?"

Anthea nods, an expression of mild surprise on her face.

* * *

They reach the lift lobby as Greg casts around for a topic to break the half-awkward silence. 

He finally settles on the question he's been wanting to ask for a long time. "How did you first meet Mycroft?"

Anthea looks at him with genuine surprise, and he feels abruptly discomfited. "You don't have to tell me - I mean, I was just curious..."

"No, it's fine. I just haven't thought about it in a long time." She pockets her phone carefully, delibrately. "The first time I met Mr Holmes..."

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as a fill to [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=117782559#t117782559) on the LiveJournal meme:
> 
> "Mycroft has been shot and is at the hospital. The three most important people to him sit outside in the waiting room together. Preference for Sherlock, Anthea, and Lestrade (with or without Mystrade) being those three people.


End file.
